


At Rest

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Depression, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Trauma, confined to bed rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: "Rest," they told Malcolm, wanting him to get a reprieve. Except rest tucks into at rest, and he's sunken.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Confined to Bed Rest.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 20
Kudos: 90
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	At Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts).



“Rest,” they told Malcolm, wanting his body to get a reprieve from a spasming back. His walk was more feeble than confident, more strained than energetic. He leaned on desks and walls when he stood, a pinch of pain between his brows.

“Can only throw yourself out so many buildings,” Gil had warned, somewhat in jest, or he wouldn’t be able to move when he was old like him.

Himself? Old? Not a concept Malcolm had considered. How old would his traumas get? Twenty years was already longer than he’d expected.

Gil? He’s not old. He’s still chasing after his ass and tucking him in when his worries go to anything but himself. And he’s usually right. So he listens.

In the quiet of his loft, voices echo off all the walls, closing him into his mind. He’s guilty. He’s not a victim. He’s an accomplice in a long running string of crimes his father is still inflicting. _He’s_ to blame. He wielded the knife; there is evil plunging through him.

Now he’s sunken in. No urge to eat, no pull to sleep, just the weight of the day trapping him. Encased into a Malcom-sized prison he deserves for every Whitly victim he couldn’t save. Could he have gotten it down to twenty-one? Twenty?

Absorbed into the mattress, roots twine from his wrists into his frame, wrapping and poking through any tissue they encounter. Stretching for pieces of Whitly, the most nourishing dirt, scattering until roots are bound around every bit of him. He’s suffocating, each gasp of breath tamped with viney ties and veiny straps crushing him.

His ghost occasionally floats to the bathroom, pills and water glass moving with it. It looks back to the bed, only a lump left behind where there used to be a Malcolm. Flowers don’t grow. Even the grass is killed by acid. The best parts devoured, the rest is just dead. Taking everything else with it.

He’s far enough down the temperature doesn’t shift. Below the frost line, a steady 50 degrees keeps his bones moderately chilled. Sufficiently earthed in regret he can’t see anything else.

Gil lets himself in. Ingredients for omelettes go onto the counter, and a frown delves into his face. He walks up the stair to the bed and rests his hand on top of the Malcolm-sized pile of blankets. “Hey, kid,” his voice waters with concern, his fingers rubbing against a shoulder.

Through the weight of the day, Gil detects a faint rise and fall, yet it’s barely a relief. He turns over the top of the blankets, browned sod falling away just enough so he can see his face, but not so much that the light would hit him. Eyes closed, furrowed brows, no peace - just there.

“Hey kid,” he repeats, his hand finding the back of his neck. He rubs in the dirt and sweat of a few days unshowered, fingers brushing against oily strands.

“Hey,” Malcolm replies, his voice gravelly from nonuse.

“Do you feel sick?” Gil asks, his fingers not detecting a temperature.

“No.”

“Have you been up?” Preserving dignity, but he’s aware of the answer.

“No.”

Gil knows what this is; he just wishes it wasn’t. Get the kid to stop moving, and weeds of thoughts take over. “How about we start with your medicine?”

Malcolm’s chin tips to his chest in a nod. Gil squeezes his shoulder and retreats toward the kitchen, but Malcolm’s voice stops him. “It’s in the bathroom.”

A handful of pills and a glass of water go on the nightstand, and Gil digs Malcolm’s head and shoulders out to sit up in bed. Pill - sip. Pill - sip. Pill - sip. Pill - sip. There’s marginally more life in him.

“I can start you a shower, or a bath?”

Neither are appealing, though he understands it’s a necessity. “Shower.” He can sit on the floor; he doesn’t want to chance the stairs.

Pulling back the rooted blankets, Gil unearths Malcolm from the deepest plot in the flower bed. Malcolm staggers to the bathroom, a hand on his upper arm ready to steady liquid legs should he start to fall. The shower goes on and Malcolm sits on the closed toilet lid, his brain catching up to his body’s movements.

“Kid, if I leave you be, will you get in?” Gil prompts, needing to let him make the decision.

“Yeah, I got it.” Malcolm pulls his shirt over his head. He moves a bit stiffly, yet not as badly as when he’d first tweaked his back hopping a fence.

Gil chops peppers and breaks up sausage in the pan for omelettes. Uses the coffee grinder Malcolm can’t convince him to accept for his own place. Sets up a spread of toast, eggs, and coffee on two plates waiting at the bar.

Malcolm comes out fluffy in a fleece sweatshirt and sweatpants, a pair of slippers on his feet. His hair does its own thing growing toward wherever it finds the most sun.

Gil brings contact again, rubbing over the collar at the back of Malcolm’s neck as he sits. Gil sits beside him, cutting into a bite of omelette.

Malcolm doesn’t know if he can eat, but the food’s in front of him. Food Gil made him. Again. Sustenance he can’t repay regardless of how many years he gets in his existence.

He takes a bite. Swallows. Another. Swallows. Leaves the rest.

“It’s alright, kid,” Gil comforts. Malcolm can try again later, or it’s a second helping for him.

Malcolm’s hands are glued to the warmth of the coffee. He takes lingering sips, thawing from the inside out.

“I’m depressed,” Malcolm admits, eyes unfocused looking through the mug.

Gil swallows _no shit_ on a bite of toast piled with egg, words he would _never_ let grow beyond thought. “We’re going to pick one thing to do today,” he explains, pointing his fork between them. “You can pick, or I can pick.”

Malcolm’s not up to decisions. “You.”

“We’ll go walk the Greenway. Get some sun. Stretch a little bit. Turn back when you want.” Get him some vitamin D, some exercise, boost his serotonin.

Malcolm nods.

“It’s okay you’re not okay,” Gil reiterates, always feeling like he needs to remind him.

“I need to call my therapist,” he discloses. “It’s on the list of things I didn’t get to yet.”

Gil offers a number of options, “I can dial so you only need to talk, or I can call, or - “

It’s a thought too far ahead. “Maybe when we get back.”

Gil agrees through a crunch of toast, bobbing his head.

“Thanks, Gil.” Malcolm meanders off to find some socks.

Gil threads his fingers through his hair, thumb rubbing at his temple. Releases a sigh carrying stress that had built when Malcolm wasn’t answering his phone. Texts Jessica back, “I’ve got him.”

* * *

_fin_


End file.
